


For Peter

by niciasus



Category: Talented Mr Ripley (1999)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niciasus/pseuds/niciasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is one scary person. Peter knows it but he can’t resist. Forget the ending to the movie. This is DeathDenial!Peter.  Originally posted sometime prior to year 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Peter

A mournful-like sound swept the air, hung in suspension, and faded away like a gasp. A breathless groan, not wispy but filled with a deep, throaty voice.

They had past the point of roaming hands, caressing the skin, applying wet-warm tongue in places ensured to arouse. Words of love, longing, promises to be, gave way to those things elemental to man and nature, elemental copulation.

The bed creaked from their exertions. Ebbed and flowed along in rhythm, the sense of movements added an obsessive thrill already surging through Tom. It meant so much to him: the room, the bed, the noise, the smell of spicy male sex, the man pounding him through the mattress.

He truly loved the madness. Never wanting to stop, never desiring to leave, this was their shrine where he could be who he wanted to be. He was himself.

“Tom. Oh, Tommy.”

Peter lost inside him taking him the way a man should take another man. None of that disgusting womanly wiles and grasping arms coiled around the neck like a snake. None of that heavy weighted breasts pressing up into strong, ribbed muscles. None of that sinking into the sweet fragrance of smothering and wilting rose, choking the life from him.

Peter. His Peter. Had him stretched out in bed, staking his claim. Knees, arms, legs, his ass, they were parts of him contorted in an image of a gymnastic. Peter fucking him. He kept him pinned on his back with his legs held over his shoulders. Stroking, pushing, and turning him inside out.

Gray slit eyes glazed over with fervor, and jet black hair glistened with sweat. Strands of his hair fell limped on his forehead. He stared at Tom and those eyes shifted. As if Peter remembered something. He drew back, slowly. Eased the pressure his body caused off Tom.

Tom felt his inner sheath throbbed as Peter withdrew, no longer stretched to fullness. He felt bereft.

“Don’t you dare, Peter. I will kill you.”

Peter stopped moving. The almond shaped eyes flickered in alarm. A quick intake of breath, and Peter masked his expression as if he knew he’d exposed too much of his reaction.

Stupid man, will he ever learn to tread carefully, pick a better way of expressing himself. He didn’t want Peter clamming up.

“I love you, Peter. Never that, never, never, never. You’re not hurting me.”

Peter eyes widened in recognition. He’d never understood how easy those expressions gave him away. How he could read him like a book: text, sub-textual, the texture of fear.

He grabbed Peter by the arms, caressing them up and down, trying to soothe him, to convince him that he was okay. He clenched his body tight stilling Peter’s movements.

“Oh.” Peter closed his eyes, threw back his head, and groaned. He withdrew further to Tom’s dismay. Suddenly he slammed forward, hard, into a tight, tight sheath bending Tom into the previous position as he went along. Just where Tom had wanted him to be.

“More. Don’t stop. Right there. Oh God.” He squealed like the little girl Dickie had accused him of.

He needed this hard and fast. He sought oblivion from past grievances and retributions. He craved this fucking, willed it to split him wide open.

Only Peter could do this: quiet the voices in his head, love the monster, the good, and the many talents Peter claimed he had.

And he, he loved Peter to possessive distraction. He relished the beauty of his music. Made Peter his example for refinement and comportment, and promptly emulated the mannerisms. Peter treated him as a crystal glass with gentleness and care, and cherish his soul with warmth. If only he wouldn’t think.

“Harder. Faster.”

Beads of moisture dripped on him. Heated breath grazed his skin. Above him, he saw a mouth softened to a rounded “oh.” The facial features twisted in concentration and passion. The sounds of skin on skin rifted the air. Peter strove hard and fast just as he’d demanded. He went deep, straight to his heart.

“Oh yes, that’s it.”

His legs ached and he didn’t care. He welcomed the pain, of being taken, of being the girl, of having himself splayed.

Peter his motions became erratic and he was there, right there, whispering his name in benediction. “Tommy, Tommy.” And when he’d reached that pinnacle, his body hung frozen and then sank.

Tom caught him. He slid his legs downward and wrapped them around Peter’s hips. Peter, still moving, grinded his body into his, pulsating within him. Tom came, convulsing from hot, stinging pleasure.

Incoherent words murmuring in his ear, hands threading through sweaty hair, lips plastering kisses over his face and his body cooled to the touch of long, strong fingers, stroking him. He imagined them running across the keyboard of a piano. And he heard only one voice and it belonged to Peter.

He carried a warm washcloth from the bathroom after admiring the marks on his skin, staring at his swollen red lips in the mirror. He loved the ferociousness of Peter’s love making as much as he loved his gentleness.

As he walked back into their bedroom, Peter closed the draw to his bedside table. He twisted around and flinched at seeing Tom standing there. Tom smiled and didn’t say a word. He walked over to the bed, bent his head, and kissed Peter gently on his forehead.

He knew what was inside that draw, although Peter had no idea he knew. The secret compartment kept it well hidden. If it ever came to that, the voices rising up and taking over, he promised himself with his soul and his heart, he would find the strength to do the necessary.

Sometimes he wished he hadn’t opened up and told Peter about Dickie Greenleaf and Freddie Miles. His confession set in motion another element to their relationship.

But yes when the time came, he would do the honorable thing and set both of them free.

Or maybe not.  
–end–


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